


Life is a Game (And True Love is a Trophy)

by deux_lunes



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 08:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20654318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deux_lunes/pseuds/deux_lunes
Summary: It had always been a game with them. Every word, every touch, every look. And so it was until Paul said, “I love you.”Originally posted on Livejournal.





	Life is a Game (And True Love is a Trophy)

It had always been a game with them. Every word, every touch, every look. It was a game that one of them would win. The winner would gloat, the loser would pout, but it was okay, because they knew that the loser would win next time. And so it was until Paul said, “I love you.” 

They both knew it from the first look. It wasn’t so much that they were both men (or boys, to be fair). They didn’t give two fucks what a man in a colorful robe said was sin. It was that it was John and it was Paul. They were friends, they were best friends. Once those touches were introduced, when the looks had become something deeper, something more than longing and “what ifs”, when words didn’t mean the same thing… That’s what they were scared of.

But it was okay to look. God, how they looked. John always looked at Paul’s arse and his eyes, both so round and full and John simply wanted to have them for himself forever. He would touch himself at night, thinking of how Paul’s arse would feel around him and how his eyes would bore into him. Paul always looked at John’s groin and his mouth, they were both so strong, so bold and brash but there was something that Paul felt no one could exactly reach. So he would touch himself at night, dreaming of his hands tugging on John’s arousal and John whispering dirty lovely things into his ears, kissing his mouth hard and soft. Both boys would come and look at the other in the morning like they never dreamt anything the night before.

They watched each other with girls, and only slightly were they jealous. If it had been another man (another boy), it would have been different. There would be no tears and questions of “why” with girls. John would watch Paul kiss the girls who were taken with his big brown eyes and pouty lips, and watch his fingers slip knowingly up into their skirts; Paul would watch as the girls approached John, intrigued by his caustic words and talented tongue and his oh-so sexual charisma and John would lead them out back, never quietly. The boys would laugh inside their women’s mouths as they watched each other: Those girls would never know what they did.

Of course, it wasn’t enough. It never was for those two. When they played together, the looks got too intense, too hot and they had to look away. There needed to be more, more, more. There needed to be cock, ass, fingers, mouths, skin against skin, two perfectly orchestrated sets of pants and gasps that upset an otherwise quiet night. They needed to touch each other.

Paul was the one who started it. He would gently touch John’s shoulder, when they were performing, when they were writing, when they were simply with each other. The first time he did it, John jumped and couldn’t look into those eyes that he loved so much. Only one step at a time. But Paul kept touching him; soon it was a wrist, a hand, a knee, a brush of fingers through his hair. And soon, John would do the same. They both pretended not to see the tents in each other’s trousers, but of course they did. They always looked.

It wasn’t until they were in Hamburg together, hopped up on prellies and drinking German beer, that they really touched each other. Pete and George had gone to one of the girly bars and Stuart, well, he was with Astrid as usual. Paul was happy for that, he hadn’t enough John to touch these days, not enough John to look at. He didn’t care if the other lads called him jealous or said he was acting like a bird. John was his, and tonight was their night together.

They walked back to the flat together slowly. They weren’t drunk, only slightly tipsy, but something between them stole their breath and made it difficult to see straight. They were still talking, there wasn’t a moment of silence between them, when Paul started touching John’s fingers with his. John struggled to maintain the conversation, something about how Pete was always late on the downbeat of “Lend Me Your Comb” but it sounded stupid in his ears now, so petty and pretentious and all he could do was stammer unintelligibly as Paul gently ran his fingertips over John’s. As soft as his touches were, both boys were impossibly hard, and finally John gasped,

“Paul, stop.”

The fingers came to rest on the palm of John’s hand.

“What is it?”

John closed his eyes, swallowing painfully. “I can’t take it, just please stop.”

Paul was quiet and the fingers retracted. The older man kept his eyes closed, pain and fear roaring silently in his mind. Then all of a sudden, Paul’s soft hand cupped his friend’s arousal, rubbing tentatively. “Do you still want me to stop?” he whispered, and John almost laughed.

“No, Christ fuck, no, Macca. Don’t stop, whatever you do.”

His hand rubbed faster on the front of John’s leather pants, reveling in all of his little jerks and quiet “mm’s”. John opened his eyes again to find Paul staring into them, and he stumbled just a little closer to the edge of orgasm. He slowly reached out and grabbed Paul between his legs, thrilled to find him as hard as he was. Paul gasped and tried to move closer to John so their legs were only just touching. He wanted to kiss him, but instead, he unzipped the leather trousers and released John from their confines, stroking him in earnest now.

John wouldn’t let himself be outdone by a bloke younger than himself, so he repeated the action to Paul and they sat on the bed, jerking each other’s shafts hard and fast, trying and failing not to moan. They were so close, they could both feel it in the way they fell closer to each other, and Paul, always so determined to win, made the final distance and kissed John wetly on the lips. John moaned into his mouth, letting his friend’s tongue snake inside, and Paul came on John’s hand with the sweetest feeling of victory. John came not ten seconds later, knowing that he would never allow that to be the only time.

They tried to put off touching each other as long as possible. After all, they weren’t queer and there was still a good deal of action with the girls who came after them. But inevitably, there would be a next time and they would wait too long, resulting in them falling into careless kisses and rubbing against each other until they came in their trousers. They loved it though. They loved the way the other felt against them, the kisses that came so hotly and passionately, the way they came like they never had with a woman. It was good.

Soon though, the fantasies they kept in the back of their minds wouldn’t stay there any longer. They wanted each other’s asses, they wanted their mouths on their cocks, they wanted all the things they dreamt about when they had touched themselves at night. But neither of them said a word, and waited to see who would be the first to cave.

John was the first, much to Paul’s pleasure. They could always tell when it would be a night where they would touch and kiss each other; the way they looked and brushed against each other tipped them off. But tonight, as John stroked Paul, he whispered into his ear, “Can I fuck you?” 

Paul froze. He had been expecting this, he had been wanting this, but now that it was here, it was overwhelming. John would be inside of him, John would be his. Trying to swallow his fear, Paul smiled cheekily at his friend. “What will you give me?”

John blinked. “What do you want?”

This part was unexpected and Paul answered without thinking, “I want one of my songs to be the first single.”

John laughed and kissed the younger man. “Anything you want, Macca. Is that it?”

Paul nodded, even though he didn’t care about anything other than John touching him. He felt slightly cold as John accepted the terms without protesting them, colder as the guitarist removed the clothes from his body and gently dug his fingers inside of him. Paul moaned loudly and drove the cold from his body as John’s fingers moved against his prostate. Then, he was inside of him, all of him. It hurt, but it felt so good. He kissed John hard and wrapped his legs around his waist, urging him on. John complied with his lover’s silent wishes, smiling against his mouth. Paul felt as good as he always dreamed, and he didn’t care much that he had asked for one of his songs to be the first single off the album. The only thing that mattered right now was that he was inside of his Macca and Macca was kissing him with all the life he had in him. When he did that, John could pretend that this was something he wanted that he couldn’t even admit to himself. Paul climaxed and cried John’s name against his mouth, and the deal was more than worth it to John.

The men found that they could last about a month before one of them would come knocking at the other’s chamber doors. They usually took turns. Paul was the next to knock and ask quietly, “Is it okay?”

“What will you give me?” John asked, hiding the spite in his voice and acting like something was more important than Paul McCartney being inside of him.

“What do you want?” Paul could hide the hurt in his voice just as well John could. 

“You know that line you wrote, ‘Now you're mine, my happiness still makes me cry’? I want that.”

Paul bit back the protest that sprang to his lips and smiled. John wouldn’t win. “That’s fine, Johnny. Now, take off your trousers and let’s get to it.”

In a matter of seconds, they were both naked and rubbing against each other, Paul’s fingers flirting around the edge of John’s hole. John felt so right in Paul’s arms, like it was the home he had never truly lived in. Nevertheless, he felt a shot of fear as his friend slipped a finger inside of him. “Be careful?” he whispered into his ear, blushing slightly. Paul smiled and kissed his cheek. That wouldn’t count against him in the game. 

Paul entered his friend fully, and as he moved inside him, feeling John buck his hips up to meet his thrusts and moan his name loudly, he felt like they were true lovers. And he loved it.

The two kept it up for years, meeting at least once a month and requesting something of the other. Singles, lyrics, certain chord progressions, which interviewer they wanted, the window seat, meaningless things like that. The only thing that meant anything to them was just to be with the other. They hid it well though, so Paul never knew that John had fallen hard for him and John never suspected that Paul had fallen just as hard. Still, they kept up this charade, as they kept up appearances around the world.

John had been the one to visit Paul at his house this time, and the younger man had jumped him as soon as the door was barely closed. They hadn’t found time to be together in almost two and a half months due to hectic touring and recording, and they needed each other so badly, they made love right in the foyer, Paul riding John’s cock desperately, moaning wantonly. John had never seen a sight more beautiful.

Once they were cleaning each other off, giggling quietly like teenage lovers, John said, only somewhat teasingly, “You haven’t told me what you wanted in exchange for that violation, Paulie.”

Paul averted his eyes. “I can’t really think of anything I want, John.”

John shrugged and pulled out his wallet. “Do you think a hundred pounds is enough?”

The bassist whirled around to face his lover. “What the _fuck_ do you mean, ‘is it enough’?! I don’t want your fucking money, John!”

John took a step back, angered by the sudden outcry. “Well, you don’t want anything else, now do you? Maybe you just didn’t realize it because we weren’t using money, but you’re nothing more than a common whore, _darling_. I have the balls to call a spade a fucking spade.”

Paul grabbed the closest object to his hand (it happened to be a paperweight from the entryway table) and threw it at John, only just missing his head. “Get the fuck out of my house, Lennon!” he screamed. The older man pulled his trousers on forcefully, grabbed the pound notes that he had dropped and thrust them into his lover’s face, hissing the word _“whore”_ hatefully at him. He was out the door before Paul had time to respond. 

Paul slumped painfully against his front door, trying desperately to hold back his tears. This had never been what he wanted. John’s hateful words echoed in his brain, and he attempted to block them by thinking of his lover’s fingers grasping his hips as he rode him, his eyes looking at him lovingly. That’s all he wanted. All he wanted was John’s love. Paul lost the battle and began to cry.

They managed to avoid each other as best as they could, which wasn’t very well considering they saw each other almost every day. They acted like that afternoon had never happened, but the pain and desperate need for love radiated off of them like it never had before. Like Paul, John had failed to keep his tears restrained and wept after Paul had chased him out of his house. He had said so many hurtful things in his life, but he had never regretted a single word more than that one. Every twisted word that had fallen from his mouth, he wanted to replace with words of love and kisses upon his lover’s beautiful face. But they had stopping speaking to each other, they had stopped touching each other, they had even stopped looking at each other. 

Paul knew what he had to do, scared as he was. He practiced the words in his mirror, something he hadn’t done since he had first met John and rehearsed his conversations in his family’s washroom. The drive to John’s was longer than he remembered and he almost wished that this wasn’t the weekend Cynthia and Julian were visiting family back in Liverpool, he would have given anything for just one more day, but he knew that if he didn’t do it now, he never would. His fingers shook as he rang the bell and waited for John to answer.

As John blinked at his visitor in surprise, Paul blurted his lines out before John could have a chance to speak. “John, I don’t want anything but you. Please, John. I don’t want any songs or any singles or any money. All I want is you to make love to me.” His voice cracked and he tried to clear his throat before delivering the most important words: “I love you.”

And that was it. Paul had quit the game. Whether or not he won was up to John. He was so cold, colder than he had ever been in his life, before John smiled and pulled him into a kiss. “I love you too, Paulie,” he whispered. They had won this game for good.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from Rufus Wainwright


End file.
